


Generations

by daisybrien



Category: Escape from Furnace - Alexander Gordon Smith, The Night Children - Alexander Gordon Smith
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Illegal Activities, Stress, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After searching through his attic with money hungry hands, Alex tries to sell his personal goldmine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Generations

It takes Alex a while to gain the courage to make his way out the door that evening, his stomach twisting in the pit of his gut and his palms tacky with sweat even before he makes his way out into the hot air outside his home. He has to jump on his feet a couple times before he finally makes his decision, slipping on a hoodie too thick for the summer’s heat and wedging his feet into his sneakers before hauling his duffel bag over his shoulder, the fabric strap burning against his hot and swollen hands. His mum had been out to visit her father, the two still in mourning even months after his grandmother’s death, his father taking a late shift at his office down in the city, finally giving him the opportunity to sneak his way out of the house.

He leaves nothing but a post-it on the door, the words 'football tryouts' scrawled in his large squiggly letters across the bright yellow paper, an explanation for the missing bag before trotting his way down the stairs from his front door. The sun is a massive orange bulb on the horizon, forcing Alex to turn his head down as he makes his way down the sidewalk, hurrying his way between the rows of houses. Even with his parents not home, he still feels as though he should maintain the lie for a few more blocks, going in the opposite direction of the bus stop and heading towards the park, just in case some suspicious neighbors decided to watch from between their flowery curtains drawn tightly against the sun’s heat or sneak up to his front door to read the lie plastered on it.

He’ll tell his parents he had fallen flat on his face and failed the tryout, would say he had hidden at Toby’s place until his bruise faded in order not to worry them, just in case he ended up making it home late; although Toby’s name would probably cause more unease to them than any minor sports’ injury. Alex cringes at the thought of their disappointed faces, his dad’s glare over his paper from his armchair, his mum’s empty eyes staring right through his façade of youthful innocence like she always did. He wouldn’t blame them. 

It doesn’t take long for him to regret taking the long way to the next bus stop down the line. By the time he has made it to the park, glancing at the people darting across the grass in jerseys of all colours, his brow is already covered in sweat, panting heavily has he feels a sore ache settling into his weary muscles; it will still be good, he thinks, knowing his exhaustion would just be another layer to assure his parents he had actually been out playing football, not running around the market and pawn shops like the thieving hooligan he really is. The strap of his overstuffed bag starts to dig into his shoulder, the muscle screaming for rest, and he hikes it over his head to the other shoulder, tucking the bag under his arm, his hand feeling its contents through the fabric. He brings the collar of his hoodie up to his ears, hoping no one on the fields will recognize him from the distance as he turns around, making his way down a side street.

There is no one on this road, everyone tucked into their homes, no one but Alex daring to face the scorching sun. Still, he feels out of place, the familiar sensation of being watched settling over him in his paranoia, the slap of his shoes against asphalt and the shuffle of his bag’s contents turning over itself inside of it seeming to be all to loud, as if a simple breath could draw attention to him, give away his motive to the entire street, leaving him to wallow in his shame and broken dignity before the cops show up to haul him into the slammer for life.

He almost laughs at the thought; he was even stealing anything! Sure, he had done so many times, and knew he was too greedy to stop. He definitely deserved to be shoved into jail for that. But how could he steal something that had been in his home in the first place? He didn’t even know he had any of this stuff to begin with, and he would think his parents would tell him they were carrying precious family heirlooms from the Second World War in their home. Who wouldn’t be proud of having ancestors who fought in the war? Yet, there was never a peep from his family about a single valiant hero – in this peculiar case, a heroine, even if he only realized it from a grainy, yellowing photo, and even then had to squint, pilot’s suit too baggy to show curves, helmet hiding a long, styled mane – fighting tooth and nail for the safety and victory of their country. 

He didn’t think anyone would miss an old, yellowing cardboard box tucked away in the corner of the attic to be forgotten, only opened by his desperate and money hungry hands. This sell would leave his family’s pride on its rightful display in a museum for the world to see – eventually, it would wind up in a museum or a historian’s hands at some point, right? – and money flowing into his pockets as though he had won the lottery.

Then again, he never listened to any of his grandparents’ wise words, had always tuned them out with every visit. It was too late to try to recall them now.

He takes a turn onto a new street, then another, then another onto one of the main roads. He can see the stop down the sidewalk, a skinny pole standing by the curb surrounded by a cluster of tired people. Alex swallows down the fear in his throat, pulling at the collar of his hoodie, seeming to grow warmer and stuffy around him. He finds himself between a burly man in a grey suit, his round face beet red and receding hairline dappled with sweat, and a tall woman in a floral dress and neat dreads piled onto her head, makeshift paper fan flitting back and forth in her hand. Some of the flying air breezes over Alex’s curls, cool against his burning skin, giving him a few seconds to relax his crashing heart before the bus appears from around the corner, his route flashing on the electric sign on the front.

The bus screeches to a stop in front of him, the doors swinging open to welcome him into what could be one of the biggest mistakes of his life. It won’t be the worst thing he will ever do, Alex thinks. He’s young. He has plenty of time to prove himself an even worse person.

He sticks one of his hands into his pocket, coins slipping over the sweat layered over his fingers. He finally fishes out the proper change, dropping the few pounds into the little box of tokens by the driver, the sharp clang of metal striking metal making him jump. He starts to make his way to the back, to the few empty seats clustered together, almost tripping forward as the bus starts to move from under his feet.

He finds himself a seat, cringing as his bag crashes loudly into the seat beside him. His eyes dart in between the other seats, watching as everyone settles into their own spots, phones revealing themselves from pockets, newspapers unfurling and rising around others like a barrier. He tries to sit back in his seat, calm his shaking breath, but he can’t help but stand rigid, a guard watching for any potential enemies. If his bag didn’t give him away, it was probably his stature, his body sticking out like a sore thumb against the rest of the passengers’ lax, lazy form in their seats.

He needs to blend in. Fiddling with the zippers on his rucksack, he opens up one of the side compartments, hand dipping into it. He pulls out his own phone, the screen shattered like a spider web in the bottom right corner, one long, narrow crack almost running the entire length of the phone up to the earpiece. He’ll get a new phone soon, help his mum pay for it from the money he’ll earn today.

He clicks one of the buttons, the screen flashing empty at him, no new texts. It felt strange; he thought at least Toby would want to know how he was doing, Alex texting him before he left the house to provide the necessary cover should his parents rightfully grow suspicious of his whereabouts. His friend had blown his top off when Alex had called him, the two ecstatic with the results of his rummaging through the attic, giddy like children unwrapping their presents on Christmas morning.  
Alex smirks at the memory, remembering Toby’s voice screaming through his phone, jumbled with static. “Bloody hell, Alex,” he had cried out, and Alex had to hold the phone away from his head, afraid his eardrum would pop if his friend’s voice rose any louder. How could the dude yell that loud and feel confident no one would find out? “Do you know how rich we’re going to be?”

The smirk disappears almost as quickly as it shows up, his elation at the thought just a shadow of how he felt during the initial discovery, and it was fading fast. Instead, he frowns at the empty screen, seeming to mock him from his hand. He shoves the phone back in his bag, crossing his arms over his chest, hoping for the buzz that would signal Toby’s own excitement. If there is anything Alex needs, it would be Toby to egg him on.

It doesn’t come, and with each passing minute Alex feels his edge start to wear off. He tries to talk his ego back into himself, tell himself that he has the right idea; he reminds himself that he still isn’t stealing, and if he was it was definitely something his family wouldn’t miss, something they wouldn’t give a second glance. He was only doing everyone a favour. In fact, wouldn’t his own great-great-aunt twice removed – or something or other, he didn’t know where in the family tree this woman sat, and hadn’t gone through the trouble to find out - standing proud and strong, want him to take her matters seriously? Why should her accomplishments go unnoticed, the tokens of her life and memories left to rot away in some musty attic? She would be proud of him for doing this. Alex was only giving what was left of her the proper recognition she deserved, the proper worth; and that worth was going to find its way right into Alex’ pocket.

He was deluding himself, and he knew it. Deep in his heart, he felt a seed a shame, threatening to break open with every sell he made, the truth inevitably sprouting from his mouth, revealing his indecency; no family would be proud of a ridiculous thief, a bully running around the market selling things he knew didn’t belong to him. He was greedy and selfish, threatening to hand over the proof of his family’s successes, Joan’s successes – at least, he guessed that was the woman’s name, the ink on the back of her few photos all but faded, only leaving the etches of an indentation as proof of her long lost identity, FSGT. Joan Forbes, RAF – to a seedy man in a broken down shop for a couple quid. How he found himself selling his family’s memories again without as much as a second thought, he didn’t know. He had never been so far from following whatever moral compass he had. He might as well tear it out of him, throw it to the ground and watch whatever that was left of it shatter to pieces.

That would be a waste, he thinks bitterly. If he was going to ruin it this badly, he might as well sell it first.

His wandering mind doesn’t register how long he is on the bus until he sees his stop coming up, and he rushes to the front of the bus before it can screech past it.   
He feels his nerves overcome him as he steps out into the street, bile threatening to rise into his throat. The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, lighting the sky in shades of orange and pinks reminiscent of the tacky table cloths and furniture over his grandmother’s coffee table, white clouds streaking the colourful gradient like swirly doilies. The air above him seemed gentle, open, a stark contrast to the dark and meager streets in front of him. The storefronts on the street were crumbling and fading, metal gates erect behind the glass of shady window displays lining the streets. The lights in block letters on the store beside him flicker on and off, some forever burnt out, words standing incomplete against the brick advertising the 'venience Store.' 

He makes his way down the street, his shoulder burning as he replaces the bag’s strap over it again. He takes a turn into a side alley, no figures to be seen but his own shadow, long and menacing in front of him as he makes his way. The street is on a downward slope, forcing Alex to go faster than he wants to, his feet almost tripping on the cracks in the sidewalk.

It’s not long before he sees his destination to his left, a banner crying 'Buy – Pawn – Sell' against starburst patterns catching his eye from across the street. If it weren’t for the banner, Alex would have almost missed it, a quaint little store tucked in between a tattoo parlour and a home retail office, just the sliver of a window display present. It’s windows have metal bars barricading it from behind, the glass and brick front of the building dirty and crumbling. 

He makes his way to the other side of the street, flipping his hood up as a precaution. His hand almost slips on the hot metal of the door handle as he opens it. He walks in while wiping his sweaty hands on his basketball shorts, adopting the usual casual saunter he always did when he was trying to sell something, forcing an aura that he was not someone you wanted to cross; he was a coward when it came to fights, only bullying the kids smaller and younger than him, and acting tough was his only defense for not being tough when he knew he would be nothing more than a limp noodle in a fight with anyone taller than him.

The store owner didn’t need to know that, though.

The man behind the counter is short but burly, the sheer mass of his body enough to have knocked Alex down if he were to piss the man off; from the permanent scowl on his face, the corners of his mouth twisted down like he had drank curdled milk, Alex was afraid to sneeze just in case he offend the man. His head darts up as the bell taped to the door jingles, alerted him of Alex’s puny arrival, his scowl deepening. 

He goes back to his work soon enough, and Alex decides to make his way around the store before approaching the counter. He winds through the narrow aisles, hefting the bag in front of him so it doesn’t knock into the shelves as he navigates around them. Guitars line one wall of the store, dangling from the ceiling, the shelves lined with delicate china and decorative vases and jars, paintings and picture frames hidden behind cube televisions and every possible electronic under the sun, all of them chained down to the shelf. Antiques catch his eye, their obscurity and uselessness strangely appealing.

His mind is brought to the pawnshop on the other side of the city, the one his father brought him to when they exchanged their old, cube of a television for a new flat screen. Everything had been organized, all the items cleaned and protected and in mint condition. The saleswoman there had looked tough, hair plaited back and flowery tattoos winding down her muscular biceps. But she had had a friendly smile and open, twinkling eyes, offering help to his father kindly and going about the store laughing, and he had known that he could trust the people in that store, something he knew he couldn’t do here. 

He eventually makes his way to the counter, and with a sinking stomach makes his way out of a narrow aisle of glittering jewelry. He strolls up to the owner, slipping his phone from the bag into his pocket before flinging the massive thing to the counter.

The owner’s head snaps up, a sneer forming on his face as he sets his eyes on Alex. He hikes up his belt, smirking, the inkling of a gold tooth disturbing a row of pearly teeth, all twinkling behind the cover of thin, pale lips that curl in a way that implies a subtle maliciousness. 

“Look who is back,” the man jeers, his voice deep and hoarse. 

“I have something for you,” Alex deadpans, feeling heat rise in his cheeks in his shame and embarrassment under the man’s piercing gaze. He feels like a furnace, and he thinks his cheeks may even start to be turning red; he might as well have steam blowing out of his ears. 

The man leans forward, hands on each side of the counter as he looks down at the gym bag, unimpressed. “A worn out, sweaty hockey bag?”

“It’s what’s in the bag,” Alex pushes on, “I’ve got at least a couple hundred quid in material in here, and that is even a bargain.”

He unzips the bag, the smell of dust and old fabric blooming from the reveal. Brass buttons, worn after the years of wear to a scratched and dented bronze colour, accenting the navy blue fabric peek out from the opening in the bag. “I’ve found some vintage uniforms from the Second World War.”

The man blinks up at him, his face cold. It makes Alex fidget in his spot, the stare unnerving. 

“Well go ahead,” Alex says, gesturing at the bag he had laid out for him. 

The man slowly straightens up, sighing heavily as he sifts through the bag. He grabs the tunic from the shoulders, lifting it up in front of him; it seems to rise regally in front of him, Joan’s ghost tall and proud, seeming to take flight like an eagle as it unfolds under the light. 

The man does nothing but scowl, throwing the piece of clothing to the side like a scrap of rubbish. He reaches into the bag again, lifting out uniform parts – shoes that once must have been polished to shine like a mirror, nylon stockings, a navy blue skirt, a wedge with a scratched and dull emblem of an eagle in flight – just as quickly as he throws them away.

“Do you have any authenticity certificates for these?” the man says, squinting at Alex from his perch, a looming figure over him. Alex feels his stomach flip, heart beating harder as he stammers for his answer.

“N-no,” Alex stutters out, all his bravado flushing out of him. Why hadn’t he expected this? “But-“

“You gotta be fucking pulling my leg,” the owner says. He groans, leaning forward on the counter, his head shaking. When he looks back up, fury etches the lines in his face. “You honestly think I’m going to believe this hoax?”

“There are other things in here,” Alex presses, shifting through the bag again. “These can confirm how real it is.” He reveals a transparent envelope, dirt and dust caked into the plastic, a letter with scribbled cursive and a yellowing photo faded beyond recognition barely visible through it. He also pulls out a picture frame, the glass no longer shiny and clear, the sepia image of three women laughing by a plane’s propeller able to be seen once he wipes it clean.

The salesman doesn’t give it more of a second glance, nudging it away with the back of his arm cruelly. “I don’t want to see what fucking Google pictures you printed off in order to try and fool me,” he says. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” His voice starts to rise, fear sending Alex’s mind spinning.

“How dare you,” Alex exclaims, squaring his shoulders even as his plan crumbles. “These are old family heirlooms.”

“Oh really?” the man says. A cruel smirk twists his face, his gold tooth peeking out between his chapped lips. “And why would someone like you be selling such important family mementos?”

The question throws Alex off guard, his heart twisting in his chest; it’s because he’s greedy, he wants to say, his morality and the happiness of the people he loves not nearly worth the couple quid he can earn from selling a precious piece of jewelry from a deceased grandmother or the only memories left of a forgotten war hero. But he keeps his lips shut tight, even as his body shakes with anger, forcing any insults or curses back down his throat. He wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of knowing his own guilt, let alone a man running a sketchy pawnshop in a back alleyway. 

“Say, I’ll make this easy for you,” the salesman says condescendingly, like a parent chastising a child. All Alex can hear is anger in his ears. “Which one of these broads just so happens to be your relative?”

In his fury, Alex barely realizes the man has asked him a question, processing the words too late to answer in a way to make the man happy, leaving him a stuttering mess. Before Alex can think of pointing to a random woman in the picture frame – he felt even more shame in not even knowing which one was his ancestor – the man’s face hardens. He straightens up, throwing the mess into Alex’s bag.

“You fucking kids and your egos,” the man grumbles, “thinking you can fool me or get away with acting like innocent little angels as if I don’t know the shit you guys get up to with the crap you’re selling me.

“I’m sick of seeing you in here trying to get me to spill money with useless junk,” the man says more firmly, looking Alex up and down. “Either come back with some sort of confirmation of authenticity or don’t come back at all.”

“You don’t seem to need any certifications for anything else you buy or sell in this place,” Alex says, his recklessness and ego coming back to him.  
The salesman’s eyes widen in rage, his lips twitching as he rises from his seat. “Get the fuck out,” he growls. Alex jumps back, knocking against a shelf of knick-knacks before leaping to shove the rest of his belongings into the bag, hefting it over his shoulder and zooming out the door.

Alex runs back to the bus stop with frantic breath and shame bleeding from his pores, his cheeks burning with the fires of humiliation, a grim reminder of his mistakes in the shape of his bag bouncing by his side. He fumbles his way onto the bus, putting too much change into the little box by the driver, hanging his head as he huddles into the back of the bus, hugging the sack to his chest.

He taps his phone screen with shaking fingers, biting his nails as he stares at the bubbles popping up in shades of green and white. He wants to scream when Toby’s blurbs finally pop up, the boy in absolute and idiotic disbelief that he blew his chance at their biggest steal in months, wants throw his phone across the bus knowing that he cares more about the money than anything else. 

Alex wants to laugh. For once in his life, he cares more about morality than the money.

The sky is a deep blue by the time he makes it back to his own street, just a sliver of the sun still visible over the horizon and falling fast. His legs ache and his body is damp with sweat as he makes it up his front porch. He almost doesn’t want to open the door, doesn’t want to face his family - what son should be ashamed to face his own family? – but he has to anyway, putting up his usual front, delving in his undeserved luxury like he always does.

He slips through the door slowly, cringing as it creaks loud enough to wake the dead. Kicking off his shoes, he makes his way through the dark house on tiptoe, passing the flickering lights flashing from the television in the sitting room as he rushes up the stairs. 

“Alex?”

He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears the words, weak and unsure, with the inklings of hope that he has no idea still exist when he thought he had crushed them long ago. He stops in his tracks, shifting the bag in front of him on the stairs to keep it from his mother’s view. He turns to her, managing the smallest of smiles.

“Yeah, Mum?”

His mother is covered in shadow, the flitting colours of the television morphing her face into different shapes and forms; it accents the tiredness in her eyes, the wrinkles in her face, and he realizes how much she is aging, wonders how much of those wrinkles were caused by his own decisions. 

“Where have you been?” his mom continues, stepping out of the shadows, her face looking friendlier yet weaker, the sharp contours of her face not as pronounced.   
“Your father and I were getting worried.”

“Toby’s,” Alex chokes out.

“Oh,” his mother sighs, looking down at her wringing hands before widening her smile at him, filled with fake kindness. “How were the tryouts?”

“Huh?” Alex stammers, confused.

“For football?” the words are small, slightly heartbroken, and it’s only then that he remembers his alibi, remembers the reason for wearing his running shoes, bringing the sports’ bag with him. He feels himself crumble right on the spot, his carefully planned lie and his mother’s face coming with him. The stare is back on her face again, the empty, piercing gaze that told him she was looking right through him, knew the mess that he was creating of himself, and that she thought she must have failed when it was no one but him that had made all the wrong choices.

“Oh,” Alex says, looking down at his socks. “It was good – well the rest of them were. I just fell on my face and made a fool of myself.”

“So you didn’t make the team?”

“I don’t think so,” Alex says.

“Well at least you tried,” his mother says, nodding with that same tentative smile; she was just upholding his lie, maybe not to cause a scene or upset his father, or maybe to just make him feel a little less guilty even as his chest squeezes tight.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “I think I’m going to shower, wash all the sweat off.” At least that wasn’t a lie. “G’night.”

“Goodnight,” his mother says. He turns back to move up the stairs, feet like lead, muscles screaming every time he tries to lift his legs.

“Oh, Alex?” his mother pipes in again. He stops again, only a few more sluggish steps to the top.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve noticed that the attic door was slightly open the other day,” his mother says slowly. Her eyes dart from his face to the bag at his side. She knew more than he thought, and he couldn’t have felt like more of an idiot. “Did you go up there by any chance?”

“No,” Alex says, lying through his teeth. “I haven’t.”

“Alright then,” she continues. “It was probably your father. You know how he is, always trying to find his lost tools.”

“Yeah,” Alex coughs pathetically as he makes his way up the next few steps. He slinks into his room, closing the door behind him, not even bothering to turn on the lights; he doesn’t want to see his greed illuminated, doesn’t want to be aware of his own existence. 

He sets the bag in the back of his closet, tucking Joan’s existence into the depths of his formal wear and old childhood toys and clothes, a soft nest welcoming her to safety and seclusion. He whispers a thousand apologies to her as he shuts the closet door, the doorknob settling with a definite click of finality of her place, and he crawls into bed in his jersey and shorts, burying his head into the pillow and blocking out the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Why is there no one in this fandom


End file.
